Chapter 8

Forms of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,--wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind,-- Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and child-like, High in wind and tempest wild; Oh, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,-- To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

The bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to thee!

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs;-- Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings!

T. MOORE.

* * * * *

THE BROWN THRUSH.

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!" And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! now I'm free! And always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you know? don't you see? But long it won't be, Unless we are as good as can be?"

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

THE GOLDEN-CROWNED THRUSH.

In the hot midsummer noontide, When all other birds are sleeping, Still one in the silent forest, Like a sentry, watch in keeping, Singing in the pine-tops spicy: "I see, _I_ see, _I SEE_, _I_ SEE."

No one ever sees _you_, atom! You are hidden too securely. I have sought for hours to find you. It is but to tease us, surely, That you sing in pine-tops spicy: "I see, _I_ see, _I SEE_, _I_ SEE."

HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

* * * * *

THE THRUSH.

Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig A thrush resorts, and annually chants, At morn and evening from that naked perch, While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, A time-beguiling ditty, for delight Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. "Ah why," said Ellen, sighing to herself, "Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge, And nature that is kind in woman's breast, And reason that in man is wise and good, And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,-- Why do not these prevail for human life, To keep two hearts together, that began Their spring-time with one love, and that have need Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet To grant, or be received; while that poor bird,-- Oh come and hear him! Thou who hast to me Been faithless, hear him, _though a lowly creature, One of God's simple children that yet know not The universal Parent, how he sings As if he wished the firmament of heaven Should listen, and give back to him the voice Of his triumphant constancy and love;_ The proclamation that he makes, how far His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!"

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE AZIOLA.

"Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh," Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought, And I, who thought, This Aziola was some tedious woman, Asked, "Who is Aziola?" How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or hate; And Mary saw my soul, And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not, 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl."

Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, And fields and marshes wide, Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirred; Unlike and far sweeter than them all. Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry.

SHELLEY.

* * * * *

THE MARTEN.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.

_Macbeth_, Act 1, Sc. 6.

* * * * *

JUDGE YOU AS YOU ARE?

How would you be If He which is the top of Judgment should But judge you as you are? Oh, think on that, And Mercy then will breathe within your lips Like man new made.

_Measure for Measure_, Act 2, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Merrily singing on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe in that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers; Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright-black wedding coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call his merry note: Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine; Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Freckled with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might. Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about.

Summer wanes,--the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows, Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone: Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,-- "When you can pipe in that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln come back again."

W. C. BRYANT.

* * * * *

MY DOVES.

My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; For, ever there, the sea-winds go With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it, The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit, With feathers softly brown, And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.

My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling gray, And tempest clouded airs. My little doves,--who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison, In mist and dullness pent, With sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content-- For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep.

So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves! to move Along the city-ways with heart Assured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown.

MRS. BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE DOVES OF VENICE.

I stood in the quiet piazza, Where come rude noises never; But the feet of children, the wings of doves, Are sounding on forever.

And the cooing of their soft voices, And the touch of the rippling sea, And the ringing clock of the armèd knight, Came through the noon to me.

While their necks with rainbow gleaming, 'Neath the dark old arches shone, And the campanile's shadow long, Moved o'er the pavement stone.

And from every "coigne of vantage," Where lay some hidden nest, They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth, Sacred, serene, at rest.

I thought of thy saint, O Venice! Who said in his tenderness, "I love thy birds, my Father dear, Our lives they cheer and bless!

"For love is not for men only; To the tiniest little things Give room to nestle in our hearts; Give freedom to all wings!"

And the lovely, still piazza, Seemed with his presence blest, And I, and the children, and the doves, Partakers of his rest.

LAURA WINTHROP JOHNSON.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE DOVE.

There sitteth a dove so white and fair, All on the lily spray, And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ, The little children pray.

Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And to heaven's gate hath sped, And unto the Father in heaven she bears The prayers which the children have said.

And back she comes from heaven's gate, And brings--that dove so mild-- From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak, A blessing for every child.

Then, children, lift up a pious prayer, It hears whatever you say, That heavenly dove, so white and fair, That sits on the lily spray.

FREDERIKA BREMER.

* * * * *

WHAT THE QUAIL SAYS.

Whistles the quail from the covert, Whistles with all his might, High and shrill, day after day, "Children, tell me, what does he say?" _Ginx_--(the little one, bold and bright, Sure that he understands aright)-- "He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!'"

Calls the quail from the cornfield, Thick with stubble set; Misty rain-clouds floating by Hide the blue of the August sky. "What does he call now, loud and plain?" _Gold Locks_--"That's a sign of rain! He calls 'More wet! more wet!'"

Pipes the quail from the fence-top, Perched there full in sight, Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye, Almost too round and plump to fly, Whistling, calling, piping clear, "What do _I_ think he says? My dear, He says 'Do right! do right!'"

MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

* * * * *

CHICK-A-DEE-DEE.

The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door; The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor;" Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree; I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare; They need through the winter your kindness and care; And they will repay you with heartiest glee, By constantly singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

Each morning you'll see them go hopping around, Though little they find on the cold frozen ground; Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree, They merrily carol a Chick-a-dee-dee.

Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold! Your little pink feet--do they never feel cold? Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed, Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head?

Though cold grows the season you seem not to care, But cheerily warble though frosty the air; Though short are the days, and the nights are so long, And most of your playmates are scattered and gone.

The snowflakes are drifting round window and door, And chilly winds whistle behind and before, Yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree, You'll hear the sweet carol of Chick-a-dee-dee.

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

* * * * *

THE LINNET.

What is the happiest morning song? The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free, In the sunlit top of the old elm-tree, Joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong.

The trees are not high enough, little bird; You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar, And with every turn yet more and more Your wonderful, ravishing music is heard.

A crimson speck in the bright blue sky, Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow? Is not heaven _within_, when you carol so? Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?

He answers nothing, but soars and sings; He heeds no doubtful question like this. He only bubbles over with bliss, And sings, and mounts on winning wings.

HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

* * * * *

HEAR THE WOODLAND LINNET.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland Linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

Sweet is the love which Nature brings: Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art: Close up these barren leaves: Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

W. WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE PARROT.

A TRUE STORY.

The deep affections of the breast That heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possessed By human hearts.

A Parrot, from the Spanish main, Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky, And turned on rocks and raging surf His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold, He lived and chattered many a day: Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew gray.

At last when blind, and seeming dumb, He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla's shore;

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied; Flapped round the cage with joyous screech, Dropt down, and died.

T. CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

THE COMMON QUESTION.

Behind us at our evening meal The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw, And wiped his hookèd bill.

He shook his wings and crimson tail, And set his head aslant, And, in his sharp, impatient way, Asked, "What does Charlie want?"

"Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuck Your head beneath your wing, And go to sleep;"--but o'er and o'er He asked the selfsame thing.

Then, smiling, to myself I said:--How like are men and birds! We all are saying what he says, In actions or in words.

The boy with whip and top and drum, The girl with hoop and doll, And men with lands and houses, ask The question of Poor Poll.

However full, with something more We fain the bag would cram; We sigh above our crowded nets For fish that never swam.

No bounty of indulgent Heaven The vague desire can stay; Self-love is still a Tartar mill For grinding prayers alway.

The dear God hears and pities all; He knoweth all our wants; And what we blindly ask of Him His love withholds or grants.

And so I sometimes think our prayers Might well be merged in one; And nest and perch and hearth and church Repeat, "Thy will be done."

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY?

"Why, so I will, you noisy bird, This very day I'll advertise you, Perhaps some busy ones may prize you. A fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard, I'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you, And say no family should be without you."

Thus far a gentleman addressed a bird; Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator, Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her? Though she but seven words can say, Twenty and twenty times a day She interferes with all my dreams, My projects, plans, and airy schemes, Mocking my foible to my sorrow: I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."

To this the bird seven words did say: "Why not do it, sir, to-day?"

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.

* * * * *

TO A REDBREAST.

Little bird, with bosom red, Welcome to my humble shed! Courtly domes of high degree Have no room for thee and me; Pride and pleasure's fickle throng Nothing mind an idle song. Daily near my table steal, While I pick my scanty meal:-- Doubt not, little though there be, But I'll cast a crumb to thee; Well rewarded, if I spy Pleasure in thy glancing eye; See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill, Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill. Come, my feathered friend, again? Well thou know'st the broken pane:-- Ask of me thy daily store.

J. LANGHORNE.

* * * * *

PHOEBE.

Ere pales in heaven the morning star, A bird, the loneliest of its kind, Hears dawn's faint footfall from afar, While all its mates are dumb and blind.

It is a wee, sad-colored thing, As shy and secret as a maid, That, ere in choir the robins ring, Pipes its own name like one afraid.

It seems pain-prompted to repeat The story of some ancient ill, But Phoebe! Phoebe! sadly sweet, Is all it says, and then is still.

It calls and listens: earth and sky, Hushed by the pathos of its fate, Listen: no whisper of reply Comes from the doom-dissevered mate.

Phoebe! it calls and calls again, And Ovid, could he but have heard, Had hung a legendary pain About the memory of the bird;

A pain articulate so long In penance of some mouldered crime, Whose ghost still flies the furies' thong Down the waste solitudes of time;

* * * * *

Phoebe! is all it has to say In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er, Like children that have lost their way And know their names, but nothing more.

Is it in type, since Nature's lyre Vibrates to every note in man, Of that insatiable desire Meant to be so, since life began?

I, in strange lands at gray of dawn, Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint Through memory's chambers deep withdrawn Renew its iterations faint.

So nigh! yet from remotest years It seems to draw its magic, rife With longings unappeased, and tears Drawn from the very source of life.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: in _Scribner_.

* * * * *

TO THE STORK.

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing Thy flight from the far-away! Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring, Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, O Stork! descend Upon our roof to rest; In our ash-tree, O my friend, My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain, O Stork, to thee I impart The thousand sorrows, the pain And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go, Away from this tree of ours, The withering winds did blow, And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky, Cloudy and dark and drear; They were breaking the snow on high, And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca's rocky wall, From the rock of Varaca unrolled, The snow came and covered all, And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow Was hidden away and lost, And the rose-trees that in it grow Were withered by snow and frost.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE STORKS OF DELFT.

The tradition of the storks at Delft (Holland), is, however, still alive, and no traveller writes about the city without remembering them.

The fact occurred at the time of the great fire which ruined almost all the city. There were in Delft innumerable storks' nests. It must be understood that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland; the bird of good fortune, like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen walking in the streets. At Delft they were in great numbers. When the fire broke out, which was on the 3d May, the young storks were fledged, but could not yet fly. Seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it up.

They might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circumstances. But they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them, covered them with their wings, as if to retard, as long as possible, the fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and noble attitude.

And who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames, that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon those who had need of him.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

* * * * *

THE PHEASANT.

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold!

POPE.

* * * * *

THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD.

Silent are all the sounds of day; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.

Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

Sing him the mystical song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you;

Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.

Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID.

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg's minster towers.